A Man and His Money

by Frederic Stewart Isham

  CHAPTER X

  A NEW-FOUND THEORY

  "No; the prince isn't coming back to America, and she--MissDalrymple--isn't going to marry him!"

  Jane's voice, running on rather at random, suddenly with unusual forcepenetrated Mr. Heatherbloom's consciousness.

  "Not going--isn't--What are you talking about?" The young man's waveringattention focused itself on her now with swift completeness. He hadhardly heard her, until a few moments before, when her conversation hadfirst drifted to that ever fascinating feminine topic of foreign lordsand American heiresses, then narrowed down, much to his inwarddisapproval, to one particular titled individual and one particularheiress "But you are mistaken, of course!" he said bruskly.

  "Oh, am I?" she retorted. "I suppose you believe everything you read inthe newspapers?"

  Mr. Heatherbloom did not answer now; he was staring out of the window.Against the sky the jutting lines of buildings seemed to waver; newextraordinary angles and jogs seemed to assert themselves. His gaze hada glittering brightness when it turned. "Have you any better authority?"

  His tone was a challenge. "I heard her tell him so myself," she saidsuccinctly. "That she could never marry him and that he must never comeback."

  Mr. Heatherbloom's hand crumpled the newspaper; then mechanically hefolded it and put it in his pocket. His look was once more bent outward;tiny specks, that were big steamboats going very fast, seemed motionlesson the sparkling surface of the water afar. His thoughts scattered; hetried to collect them, to realize where he was, how he happened to bethere; the identity of the speaker and what she had been saying! Certainpreconceived, fixed ideas and conclusions had been toppled over,brushed aside in an instant. Was it possible?

  "I was waiting to trim and fill the lamps," said Jane. (Miss Van Rolsenclung to oil lamps for reading.) "The prince and she were in thelibrary. He has a loud voice, you know."

  The young man did. "But why--"

  "Search me!" Vivaciously. "He was the very pick of the whole cargo ofdukes and the like. There isn't another girl in New York would have doneit."

  "But surely," scarcely hearing her last words, "no newspaper would dareto announce such a thing without--"

  "Oh, wouldn't it? When it called up the house every day, almost, andgot: 'There is nothing to say'? Didn't I answer the 'phone once or twicemyself? 'Miss Van Rolsen declines to be interviewed concerning herniece. She has nothing to say.' I think I once giggled, the man's voiceat the other end was so aggressive. He said he was the city editorhimself. Is that very high up?"

  Mr. Heatherbloom did not seem to hear. He scarcely saw his companionnow; nevertheless, he was conscious of a desire to be alone, in order toconcentrate, consider, reach for light and find it. But where could hediscover a safe spot; his problem was a dual one; primarily, he mustconsider himself; he must not forget his own desperate situation anddanger. The train, beginning to slacken, brought the sense of it oncemore poignantly to mind. His companion hadn't reached the station yetbut he suddenly rose. The car stopped with a jerk; Mr. Heatherbloommurmured something hurriedly and dived for the door.

  On the street he breathed deeply, standing as in a daze while thethunder of iron-rimmed wheels surrounded him. He was cognizantprincipally of certain words humming in his brain: The prince and shewere not engaged! The nobleman not returning to America in the fall!Never coming back!

  But that item in fine print in the newspaper he had in his pocket--whatdid it mean? Nothing, of course, beyond what it said; still--

  Some one bumped into Mr. Heatherbloom; whereupon he suddenly realizedthat he was standing on one of the busiest corners and had been makinghimself as conspicuous as possible. Hastily he moved on. To whatdestination? He glanced toward a convenient saloon; it looked hospitableand inviting. Then he remembered they--man-hunters, in general--alwayssearched the saloons first for criminals.

  He started toward a side street but paused, reasoning that he was moreprominent on comparatively isolated thoroughfares than on the swarmingones. A stream of women flowing into a big department store, exercisedan odd attraction for him. Safety lay, perhaps, among numbers; at least,for the time, until he could devise a course of action. If he couldconceive of one! If--

  He must; he would. Every nerve in his body seemed to respond. Had he notembarked before this on desperate adventures; had he not fought in theface of overwhelming odds, and managed to hold his head up? A peculiarlittle smile played around the corner of his thin lips; it was like theflash of light on a blade. He joined the inflowing eddy.

  Bargain day! He was crushed and crumpled but found himself ultimately ona stool in the rear of the store. No; he didn't want any marked-downcollars or cuffs; he conveyed an impression to the solicitous clerk ofsome one waiting for some one. Patiently, uncomplainingly! With anunseeing eye for the hurrying and scurrying myriads! Time passed; heremained oblivious to the babble of voices. Timon in the wilderness,Diogenes in his tub, could not have been mentally more isolated fromannoying human consociation than was at the moment Mr. Heatherbloom,perched on a rickety stool amid a conglomeration of females strugglingfor lingerie.

  Suddenly he stirred. "Have you a book department?" he asked an employee.

  "Straight across; last aisle to the left."

  Mr. Heatherbloom got up; his tread was slow; a somnambulistic gleamappeared in his eye. Yet he was very much awake; he had never felt morekeenly alert. He reached the book section.

  Did they have any Russian fiction? Oh, yes; what kind did he want,nihilistic or psychological? _The Fire and Sword_ kind, whatever thatwas; the second volume of the trilogy, if they had it in stock? Surethey had; but had he read the first volume? No; he didn't want that; hewould begin in the middle of the trilogy. He always read trilogies thatway.

  The young lady in charge looked what she thought as she handed him thebook. He paid her; unfortunately it cost more than the popular novels ofthe day. He rather gravely contemplated the few small bills he had left;the amount of his capital would not carry him very far, especially ifunusual expenses should occur. Miss Van Rolsen still owed him a littlemoney but he didn't see how he could collect that now.

  Mr. Heatherbloom, armed with his book, sought a different part of thestore--- a small reception-room, where customers of both sexes were atliberty to read, write, or indulge in mental rest-cure, after bargainpurchases. There he perused hurriedly, and by snatches, the volume;there was plenty of fire and plenty of sword in it; human passionsbubbled and seethed. Suddenly he sat up straight and a suppressedexclamation fell from his lips; he closed the book sharply.

  One or two old ladies looked at him but he did not see them. His vision,clairvoyant-like, seemed to have lifted, to traverse broad seas,limitless steppes. His hands opened and closed, as if striving to reachand clutch something beyond flame of battle, scenes of rapine.

  He got up dizzily. As he stepped once more into the street, the shadowshad lengthened; twilight was falling. He stopped at a pawnbroker's,purchased a revolver and cartridges. He might need the weapon now morethan ever. And money--he needed far more of that than he had. He spreadin his palm the little wad of greenbacks he took from his pocket;counted them and a few silver pieces. Then seeking a ticket office, hemade a few casual inquiries; a shadow rested on his countenance as heemerged from the place.

  Next door to it a pile of gold pieces in a bank window shone mockinglybefore his eyes. So near--with only the plate-glass between him and thebright discs! Mechanically he began to count them, but suddenly turnedfrom that profitless occupation and stood with his back to the window.

  What availed resolution without dollars? His purpose might be strong,but poverty, a Brobdingnagian giant, laid its hand on his shoulder,crushing him down, holding him there, impotent, until the stocky man andhis cohorts of the private detective office should come over and gethim--to send him to the little island he had thought of when crossingthe bridge to Brooklyn!

  He fell back into a doorway. More money!--he must get it; must! Hefolded his arms tight over his br
east. To think that this should be hisone great, crying need--his!

  Above, he heard footsteps descending the stairway at the foot of whichhe stood; Mr. Heatherbloom slipped out of the passage to the sidewalkand moved on. Chance took him back the way he had come; he had no choiceof direction. Now he looked once more at the window of the pawnbroker,where he had stopped a short time before. He regarded the unredeemedpledges; seal-rings, watches, flutes, old violins; what not? If he onlyhad something left; but all had gone--long ago.

  All? He started slightly; considered; walked on. But he turned around,hesitatingly, and came slowly back. As he approached the door, his stepgrew more resolute. He walked briskly in. Without giving the proprietortime to come to the front of the shop, Mr. Heatherbloom moved at once tothe back where the other sat behind his dusty glass cases.

  "Here I am once more." He spoke with forced gaiety.

  "What you want to buy now?"

  "I don't want to buy anything; I want to sell something."

  The pawnbroker's interest in the visitor at once departed.

  "I have everythings! Everythings!" he grumbled. "Nearly every one wantsto sell. I have no room for noddings more. Good night!"

  "But I've something special," said Mr. Heatherbloom. As he spoke he tookfrom an inner pocket a little parcel in pink tissue-paper; he fingeredit a moment, removing an ivory miniature from a frame, passed the paperquickly about the picture once more, and returned it to his pocket. Thenhe handed the frame, over the case, to the pawnbroker. "What do youthink of that, my Christian friend?" he said with a show of jocularitythat didn't ring quite true.

  The pawnbroker bent his dull face close to the article; it was gold. Apretty trinket, set with a number of brilliants, it might have come fromthe Rue Royale or the Rue de la Paix.

  "Cost about five hundred francs," observed Mr. Heatherbloom, watchingthe other closely. "One hundred dollars, without the duty."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "None of your business." With a smile.

  The man moved toward a telephone at his back. "Do you know what I'mgoing to do?"

  "I am curious."

  "'Phone the police."

  "Is that an invitation for me to depart? If so--" Mr. Heatherbloomreached for the little gold frame.

  "Oh, no," said the man, retaining the graceful article. "The police willfind out who this belongs to."

  "Tut! tut!" observed Mr. Heatherbloom lightly. Something on the edge ofthe showcase pointed over it; the hand the proprietor professed to raisetoward the telephone fell to his side; he seemed about to call out."Don't!" said the visitor. "It's loaded; you saw me put in thecartridges yourself. Your little game is very passe; I had it worked onme once before, and placed you in your class--a fourth-rater, with acrib for loot!"

  The other considered; this customer's manner was ominously quiet andeasy; he didn't like it. A telepathic message that flashed from thegleaming gaze above the shining tube suggested an utterly frivolousindifference to tragic consequences. The proprietor moved away from thetelephone.

  "Fifteen dollars," he said.

  "Twenty," breathed Mr. Heatherbloom insinuatingly.

  The man put his hand in his pocket and counted out the money. The callertook it, said something in those same blithe significant accents aboutwhat would happen if the other made a move in the next two or threeminutes, then vanished from the store. He did not keep to the busythoroughfare now, but shot into a side street. Would the pawnbroker hidethe frame and then call the police? It was quite possible he might thusseek to get into their good graces and revenge himself at the same time.Mr. Heatherbloom turned from dark byway to dark byway. He knew there wasa possibility that he might keep going throughout the night withoutbeing taken; but what would he attain by so doing, how would that profithim?

  He had to get back to New York at once, and as speedily as possible!The shining face of a street clock that a short time before he hadlooked at, admonished him there were no moments to spare, if he wouldcarry out his plan, his headstrong purpose--to verify or disprove acertain wild theory--which would take him where, lead to what? Nomatter! Above, between black shadows of tall buildings, he saw a star,bright, beautiful. Something in him seemed to leap up to it--to thatlight as frostily clear as her eyes! A taxi passed; he hailed it.

  "How much to Jersey City?" he asked in feverish tones.

  The man approximated a figure; it was large, but Mr. Heatherbloom atonce got in.

  "All right," he said. "Only let her go! I've a train to catch."

  "You don't want to land us in the police court, do you?" asked thechauffeur.

  Mr. Heatherbloom devoutly hoped not.